


30 Day OTP Challenge: Sherlolly - November 2014

by Cee5



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, F/M, Parentlock, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 11,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cee5/pseuds/Cee5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This month I am going to  write the "30 Day OTP Challenge" for Sherlolly.<br/>Each day I will post a new short story based off a single prompt, which will in turn be the title of each chapter.<br/>Stories are in no way chronological, nor related. </p><p>You can consult the list of prompts <a href="http://kanrose.co.vu/post/26596382488/kanroses-30-day-otp-challenge">here.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Holding Hands

As their time as a couple increased and their relationship solidified, Molly started to notice more and more peculiarities about Sherlock. The one that pleased her the most was how much he liked holding hands. Out of the blue, most of the times when she was expecting it the least, Sherlock would surreptitiously slither his fingers between hers, and let his hand settle there; no words, no warning, just the familiar and perfect fit.  

At first she thought that that need for human touch might have something to do with a difficult day, but soon she realised it didn’t. Whether they were curled up against each other on the couch, watching a TV show Molly had chosen, or reading a book in unison, acting out the different characters and laughing at the funny voices Sherlock was capable of making, or at the lab, waiting for the computer to deliver the so awaited result to no avail, Sherlock was always keen to offer his hand and take Molly’s in it.

Sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night and sense Sherlock feeling the sheets, looking for her. She would then make his search easier, and pass his arm over her waist, and then she would hold his hand, like she knew was his intention. Other times she would spot his hand making way across the breakfast table to find her fingers, and he would play with them absentmindedly, without once looking up from his newspaper.

“Why do you like holding my hand so much?” Molly asked one evening, as they left a restaurant, heading to the comfort of their home.

Sherlock shrugged, “Does it bother you?”

“No,” she reassured, “I’m just curious. You’re not extremely fond of kissing all the time, nor hugging all that much, and yet we always seem to hold hands when we’re together.”

Sherlock looked at her, slowing down, “I do like kissing you.”

“Not as often as you like holding hands,” Molly pointed out.

“I like listening to you, and I like to be close to you when we are working on something together, but none of those things are compatible with kissing or hugging.”

Molly giggled, “True. I was just wondering. Not everyone likes holding hands this much.”

Molly felt Sherlock’s hand skidding away from her grip and she was too late to grasp it back. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the pavement, turned to face her, and then he framed her face with his hands. Their warm breath was a visible whirlwind against the cold air of the night, evaporating within seconds. Sherlock lowered his head and his lips found Molly’s. She opened her mouth and kissed him back, closing her eyes, letting it take over her senses.

Sherlock was a wonderful kisser; his tongue discovered Molly’s skilfully, and she felt a warm feeling every time he bit her lips and alternated between passionate and chaste kisses.  

“Let’s go home,” she whispered when he finally moved his lips away from hers, their noses still touching.

“See?” he said, as if he had finally found a way to make her see, “Holding hands is always the safer bet.”

Molly took in his words and then she laughed out loud, burying her face in his chest, and Sherlock embraced her, laughing with her. Molly took a step back and then extended her hand in front of herself, for him to hold.

Sherlock took it gladly, and then he hid their intertwined hands in the pocket of his coat, for warmth, and they walked side by side.   

Holding hands was their silent ‘I love you.’ Holding hands meant ‘I’m here.’ Holding hands was home.


	2. Cuddling Somewhere

Sherlock walked fast, carrying yet another blanket. He was now thankful that Molly’s precaution had won over his own stubbornness. It was colder than he had expected and the weather report had announced. Luckily, the night sky was mostly clear, with only a few grey clouds showing in the horizon.

Molly turned her head to him when she heard his footsteps and grinned widely. She was already sitting on top of the thicker blanket, all wrapped up, and Sherlock spread the blanket he had picked up lastly over her as well. Then, he scooted Molly over and found a place for himself under both blankets too.

Molly adjusted herself with her back against his chest, one of his legs on each side of her, and Sherlock held her tight. She was shaking.

“You’ll be warm soon,” he reassured her, rubbing his hands against her arms, which made Molly laugh.

“I sure hope this is worth it,” she spoke, her teeth chattering.

That morning Molly and Sherlock had left London in a rented car and driven together to the seaside. There was going to be a meteor shower and Molly had insisted she wanted to see it. London was not the best place to gaze out the stars, so they planned out the trip, put what they would need in the boot of the car, and left town.

Molly had been chattering on the ride there more or less continuously whilst Sherlock drove, paying attention to the road, and answering her questions now and then. Since they had time before the spectacle begun, they had visited the town, walked in the beach, and had looked for the best place to stay the night. They hadn’t made a reservation but soon they found a rustic and lovely bed & breakfast, with a fireplace and comfy bed, which suited them both straight away. There were still rooms available, and it only took one look in Molly’s direction for Sherlock to know they would not have to search further.

He had never cared much about the stars, but Molly knew a few things, certainly infinitely more than him. And even though he would erase all the information she was passing him later, he also knew that talking about this made Molly happy, so he heard her intently.

As the evening approached, they had both left their bed & breakfast room, and driven to the beach. Molly had insisted it was romantic to watch it there; Sherlock had laughed and rolled his eyes, but had ultimately acquiesced.

It was not a summer night, quite the contrary, so they brought the blankets and they cuddled together on the beach, waiting for the show to begin.

It was Sherlock who saw the first shooting star; Molly missed it. But after that her eyes were open and curious and they observed the skies above with the same attention a child watched their favourite cartoon.

It didn’t take long for the lonely star that Sherlock had seen to become the starting point of a hundred more, which followed suit.

Sherlock’s chin was resting on Molly’s shoulder, relishing on the smell of her shampoo, and she would take notice and announce out loud every time a new star fell.

“We’re supposed to ask for a wish when we see a shooting star,” Molly pointed out.

They both saw the next one falling, an incandescent spark of light extinguishing in mid-air.

Molly closed her eyes and made her wish. When she opened them again she realised that Sherlock had never closed his.

“Aren’t you going to make a wish as well?” she inquired.

Sherlock looked at her, and kissed her quickly on the nose, “I already have all that I could wish for,” And he held her closer against his torso, emphasising his words.

Many more stars fell during the time they cuddled together out there on the deserted beach, embracing each other to fight the cold, but Molly didn’t make any more wishes. She didn’t need them either.


	3. Gaming

“You are the biggest arsehole I have ever met in my life!”

Molly’s words echoed through the house.

She was mad, Mrs. Hudson thought. She had been watching telly after dinner when the disruption upstairs had begun. First only the signs of a small fight, which were nothing she hadn’t heard before, but bit by bit Sherlock and Molly’s voices had risen, with grunts and complaints Mrs. Hudson would have preferred not witnessing. She didn’t want to be nosy, and it was their life anyway, but it was difficult not to hear them shout at each other when they made no effort to conceal their discussion.

“Alright!” Molly’s voice was angrier than ever, altered, “I want a divorce!”

Mrs. Hudson almost dropped her tea cup. Now this was certainly a bit too much. She knew Sherlock could be difficult, but it was more than obvious that those two loved each other. Heck, they had been made for each other.

She had counted on Molly to put some sense in Sherlock’s head but if anything there were more and more defaced limbs all over the apartment now, in the strangest of places. The nauseating smell that used to make its way downstairs at times was now very often substituted by weird noises. Mrs. Hudson tried not to think too much of those, but the truth was that nowadays she had always at hand an extra pair of ear plugs, when things became a bit… heated. None of them was exactly a silent lover.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head, as the intrusive thought crossed her mind. That was none of her business, they were living together as a couple, it was only natural. It did remind her of herself and her husband, before he had decided to blow someone else’s brains up. Those had been good times.

“OH!” this time the scream came from Sherlock, a tone of accusation in his voice, “You promised not to use THAT against me!” he complained, “I’m going to murder you!”

Mrs. Hudson got up. She could not allow this to go on. Certainly they could figure it out, and she had witnessed enough crimes for a lifetime. She decided that it was better to go upstairs before any of them did something crazy.

She took the steps one by one, and as she approached the door, which was unusually closed, she heard other muffled sounds.

“Alright, come here this minute, you’re done for!” Sherlock shouted.

She heard steps that came from the kitchen, as if they were chasing after each other, and she opened the door. What she saw was not what she had expected to see.

The living room was a bigger mess than usual; there were pillows scattered across the floor along with the usual books, and Molly was now lying on the floor, laughing, whilst Sherlock tickled her, pulling her jumper up and kissing her belly. He stopped when he heard Mrs. Hudson opening the door, and he looked at her, still laughing.

“Mrs. Hudson? Is everything okay?”

“Are we being too noisy?” Molly asked, catching her breath now that Sherlock’s attention was not on her anymore.

Mrs. Hudson was surprised, “I heard you threatening each other, saying you were going to divorce and murder each other, I was a bit worried.”

Both Molly and Sherlock started to laugh, so much that Molly was actually crying now.

Sherlock explained, “I’m sorry, Hudders, we were just playing a game. There will be no crimes tonight,” he said, cheerfully. Then, he kissed Molly on the forehead and got up, “Ready for round two?” he asked her.

“Only if you promise not to send more blue shells right before I cross the finish line,” Molly warned him.

“Promise,” and he passed Molly the other remote.

Then, as Molly sat down on one of the pillows positioned on the floor, right in front of the TV, Sherlock looked behind and winked at Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson went back to her flat, shaking her head. Later on she went to bed and with muffled noises coming from upstairs once more, she put on her ear plugs again. Bless them.


	4. On A Date

“Okay, how do I look? Do you think this shirt will go well with the scarf? It’s blue, but it’ a different blue. Maybe I should change it to white. I don’t know. How do I look? Oh my god, I forgot the flowers!”

Sherlock darted out of the bedroom, and John rolled his eyes, waiting for him to return.

“No, I got them; I got them before I came home. They’re her favourites, I had reserved them yesterday. Okay, it’s all taken care of.”

Sherlock stood again in front of the mirror, adjusting his scarf around his neck.

“You’ve got to calm down,” John said, able to speak for the first time in about an hour. Before that, Sherlock had been on and on, asking questions without actually giving John time to answer any of them, darting in and out of the room to pick up something and make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. John had never seen him like that before. It would be hilarious if Sherlock wasn’t in such a state of anxiety.

“I am calm,” Sherlock said, looking at John through the mirror, “What do you mean I have to calm… Did I make the reservations for seven o’clock or-?” he cut off, panic spreading all over his features again.

“You’re fine!” John said, stopping Sherlock on his tracks before he was able to leave the room again, “Dinner reservation for seven at the ‘Piccadilly,’ flowers taken care of, the cab will be here at about a quart past six, which is plenty of time to get to Molly’s. Here,” he showed Sherlock his phone, “You calculated everything to the smallest detail, there’s no way this could go wrong.”

Sherlock looked at John and took a deep breath, “No, of course not. I am not worried about this.”

The look John gave his was enough to make Sherlock stutter, “I mean, wh-what if she doesn’t like me?”

This time John laughed out loud. Sherlock was a child; a clueless, lost child.

“Sherlock,” he said, a condescending tone in his voice, “Molly has been trying to ask you out for ages! What makes you think that now that you invited her on a date, she will stop like you?”

Sherlock reflected on his words and then they heard the sound of a horn downstairs. Sherlock darted out of the room, and pulled the curtain on the living room aside, “It’s my cab,” he announced.  Then he took a deep breath, straightened himself up, and stared at John again,” Okay, I have to go.”

John passed him his coat and Sherlock put it on, trying to look nonchalant. Before he left, John called him again.

“Sherlock?”

“What? Did I forget something?”

John chuckled, “No. Just remember, Molly likes you. Don’t try to look distant and unattached. She won’t appreciate that.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Show her that you are fond of her too. That’s how things usually work.”

Sherlock seemed to be deciphering John’s words in his mind for a moment. Then, he nodded and left the flat.

*

Molly turned her head when she heard the door screech on its hinges. It was late and she was supposed to be doing this shift alone at St. Bart’s, so she was not expecting anyone so late. Then, she saw Sherlock.

Sherlock always came at the most ungodly hours. He didn’t have a consistent working schedule, so Molly could pretty much count on him to show up when she expected him the least. She put down the samples she was collecting, and smiled at him.

“Molly,” Sherlock said, in his usual affirmative tone.

“Sherlock,” she mimicked, raising her eyebrows and smiling, “How can I help you?”

To her surprise Sherlock didn’t answer straight away; he gazed at her for a second, then opened his mouth to speak and finally stared at his feet, hands behind his back.

“I was wondering,” he started, and Molly frowned. It was almost as if he was afraid to tell her why he had come here, which was a first, “If you’d like to go out for dinner.”

Well, that was new.

“Sure,” Molly said, “Do yo-“

“Really?”

Sherlock’s eyes were watching her again, hopeful.

“Yeah, of course,” Molly assured, “Is it for a case?”

Sherlock inhaled, “No,” he explained, but words seemed to be failing him now.

“Are you alright?”

Molly got up from her seat, worried. Sherlock was acting really strange.

“Yes,” he looked down at her, “I meant… Would you like to go out for dinner with me… As in… as in a date?”

Molly was glad she had left the samples placed on the lab bench, or she would have dropped them right this instant. Then she frowned again, suspicious, trying to read Sherlock.  Maybe this was a prank.

“You want me to-” she motioned with her finger, pointing at herself, “You want me to go out with you on a date. Like a romantic date?”

Sherlock nodded, looking at his feet again, “Yes, if you want to. Why would you want to, anyway? I’m sorry, I don’ know what I was thinking.”

He took a step back but before he could walk away Molly held him by the arm, “No, wait.” she demanded, a bit too fast, “I’d love to.”

Sherlock looked at her, and Molly could almost swear he was trying to fight off a smile from spreading across his face. His eyes were glistening.

“Oh. Good,” he said.

“Good,” Molly repeated.

“I’ll pick you up at your place this Friday, around six thirty?” he asked.

Molly nodded, “Seems good to me.”

She watched him as he left the morgue, and then she sat down again, too dumbfounded to actually take in what had just happened properly. Then, she was grinning like an idiot all night.

*

Molly was sitting on the sofa, trying to find something to do. She had taken so long to get ready and she still wasn’t sure she was happy with the clothes she had picked. Her hair had decided to give her a break though, and it looked smooth and shiny.

She was nervous. One thing was fantasizing about this happening; another thing was Sherlock coming to her at the lab to actually ask her out for dinner.

The doorbell rang and Molly sprang to her feet.

“Calm down,” she told herself, and she picked up her purse and left the flat.

Sherlock was waiting for her outside, one hand behind his back.

“Hi,” he said when he saw her. He didn’t compliment her but the way he looked at her said enough.

“Hi,” Molly answered back, “You look nice.”

In all honesty, he didn’t look much different than usual, but that didn’t make it a lie.  

“You, too,” he answered. Then he retrieved the bunch of flowers that he was concealing, “This is for you.”

“Oh,” Molly blushed, and accepted the flowers, “Thank you. They’re my favourites.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, and he opened the door of the cab for her with a smile, “Shall we?”

Molly entered, and they rode to the restaurant.

The dinner was awkward. Molly used to ramble at all times, and with the added nervousness of the date she was speaking even faster. Sherlock was unusually quiet. He tried to listen to her, but he was trying so hard not to make a fool of himself, that he ended up losing focus on the conversation. It was almost a relief when it ended.

They walked together by the Thames, taking in the fresh air of the night, silent for the first time that evening.

“A friend of mine drowned in the Thames. Well, not really a friend of mine,” Molly started, “Just someone I worked on at the morgue. I always call them friends of mine, since I get to open them up. And sew tem back up. I think it is quite intimate, so it seems only right that I get to call them my friends, after all I pro-”

Sherlock grabbed Molly by one arm, and turned her around to face him.

Molly didn’t have time to assimilate anything, except the fact that Sherlock Holmes was kissing her. Sherlock Holmes had one hand on her neck and jaw and another on her waist, pulling her close to him, and his tongue was finding his way into her mouth and she couldn’t take anything else in but this.

He kissed her longer than Molly remembered anyone kissing her, until her lips were numb and ticklish.

“I thought that maybe we could skip over the whole dating thing. It seems that none of us was cut off for that,” Sherlock said when they finally parted.

He was looking at Molly, his whispered words breathed against her lips.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Molly agreed, trying to even her own breath, her head spinning. This was so much better than everything she had ever imagined.

Sherlock smiled, seeming to relax for the first time that evening, and then kissed her again, in the same languid manner.

They could do without dates. She was okay with them skipping straight into this. In fact, she thought, they seemed to be quite good at it.


	5. Kissing

“Sherlock,” Molly whispered, pulling away from Sherlock’s passionate kiss, and pecking him on the lips now, “Slowly.”

“I’ve been away a week,” Sherlock complained, but he did as told, licking her ear instead, making the hair on the back of her head stand up.

“Tell me about it,” she said, breathing heavily into his ear as Sherlock went on to kiss her neck and jaw, “But we have to be quiet.”

Sherlock chuckled, and his breath against Molly’s neck sent shivers down her spine.

“I’m not the loudest one in this relationship,” Sherlock told her, and he ran his tongue over her collarbone, alternating with short kisses.

“You’re not the quiet kind either,” Molly pointed out.

Sherlock turned her over on the bed, pressing with his kiss her head against the pillow, inserting himself between her legs, rubbing his pelvis against hers. Molly moaned low and long, and then dove her fingers into Sherlock hair, pulling him to her, scratching his neck with her fingernails.  

Sherlock was getting restless, panting against her in the darkness of the room, with rhythmic movements almost lifting Molly off the bed. They were still wearing their underwear which made their touch, separated by a piece of fabric, incredibly hot to both.  

“Mommy?”

Molly yanked Sherlock off of her so suddenly that he rolled over and fell on the floor with a thump. Then, as he got back into bed, trying to think of anything but Molly’s body against his own, she turned on the light.

“Yes, honey, what is it?” she got up, arranging her hair and clothes quickly, “Did you have a bad dream?”

The little boy nodded, his mouth bending downwards into an unhappy arch. He was trying hard not to cry.

“It’s okay to be afraid, baby, you got scared. But it’s all good now, see? Mommy and Daddy are here, and the bad dream is over.”

She held the four year old in her arms, and hugged him. The boy held her tight, his tiny arms around her neck; he was shaking.

Sherlock got up as well, controlled now, and approached them, brushing the boy’s curly dark hair, so much like his, out of his forehead. The little boy gazed at him and Sherlock couldn’t help but notice again how many similarities he shared with Molly: the hair was Sherlock’s, but the eyes, mouth and nose, as well as traits of kindness and clumsiness, were all Molly’s.

William had been a greatest gift than Sherlock had ever imagined. When Molly told him, on a cold morning, that she was pregnant, he stood frozen on the spot. Not that he didn’t want to have a baby; in fact, they had discussed it before, but having it actually happen was something else altogether. And he had been scared; scared of being unable to become a good father, to cater for another human being.

During Molly’s pregnancy he had been the one to make calculations, schedule classes with parenting advice, and read everything there was to read on the matter. Molly seemed to take it all so quietly and naturally, it was a mystery to him how she had managed it all.

Seeing the baby, holding it in his arms for the first time, had changed Sherlock more than he liked to admit. He had become more patient, more open, and more careful with his words and actions. Many times it was he who would wake up in the middle of the night to attend to the baby’s cries, and give Molly a little rest. He would always do it gladly.

“Can I sleep with you tonight?” the little boy asked, tears forming in his eyes already, anticipating the answer.

To his surprise though, Sherlock acquiesced, “Yes, you can. Just for tonight, alright?”

William nodded, sniffing, and Sherlock picked up a tissue from the box on the nightstand and helped him blow his nose.

Molly turned around with the boy in her arms and smiled at Sherlock, mouthing a _thank you_ on her way back to bed.

She lied down with William, that was now calmer, still in her arms. Sherlock got into bed as well, and kissed his son on the forehead, as he snuggled up against Molly.

“Sleep tight,” Molly kissed William’s curls, and watched as he closed his eyes, yawning but not shivering anymore.

She felt Sherlock’s hand reaching out for hers, and he placed it there, on top of William’s back as well.

“I love you,” he mouthed.

“I love you, too,” she replied in the same manner.

And he kissed her chastely on the lips, pressing his forehead against hers, with William in between their bodies. There would be other chances to kiss each other. For now they observed William, equally proud of what their love had created.

 


	6. Wearing Each Other's Clothes

Molly bent over herself, arms around her own stomach, laughing hard. Sherlock had just come out of the bedroom, wearing her clothes and he looked absolutely ridiculous. Adorably so.

“My name is Molly Hooper, I am a pathologist and I am in love with Sherlock Holmes,” he mimicked with a high pitched voice, portraying her quirks so well that Molly barely had time to be mad at him, laughing again.

“Hey, I have never said that!” she pointed out, getting up on top of the sofa and opening her arms, Sherlock’s humongous coat hanging beneath her feet, the sleeves too long for her, dangling over her hands and covering them completely. “My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am a high functioning sociopath and I worship Molly Hooper because she gets me corpses to work on.”

She made the lowest voice possible and Sherlock walked to her, grabbing her by the waist before balancing her in his arms, finally laying her on the sofa. He lay on top of her as well, without applying any pressure.

Molly placed her arms around his neck, massaging his hair, and then rubbed her nose against his, “You look very sexy with that,” she joked, “I think you can even go to St. Bart’s and work for me tomorrow whilst I solve a case for you. Or several.”

In fact, Sherlock looked comical; whilst his clothes fit loosely on Molly, hers on the other hand were too tight everywhere on him. That adding to a short cardigan and flowery blouse, which left Sherlock’s belly uncovered, was the icing on the cake.

“So this is definitely a ‘no’ for Halloween costume?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Molly disagreed, “We’d have a great laugh at your expense at least.”

“Yes, that is the problem, so it is definitely a no,” Sherlock decided. “Do we really need to do this?” he asked her, caressing her cheek with his thumb.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to do it. But everyone else is going, I have a day off at work, and I’d like to. I think it could be fun. But if you don’t feel comfortable doing it, we won’t.”

Sherlock stared at Molly for a while, very serious now.

Molly frowned, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said, “Just… You’re too good for me.”

Molly chuckled, placing a hand on his jaw, and tracing it with her index finger, “I know,” then she pecked him quickly on the cheek, “You better appreciate that.”

 _I do_ , Sherlock thought.

“So, if this is out of the table,” he pointed out at their outfits, “What are the other alternatives?”

Molly smiled, “Does that mean we are going after all? Because you’re changing your mind too fast, I can’t keep up.”

“Yes, we are going.  But I am not going out with a pair of trousers that only go down to my knee and a cardigan that makes me look like a ragged doll.”

Molly laughed, “Fair enough,” then a mischievous look crossed her face, “Anyway, we can think of something later. These clothes are very uncomfortable.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, catching her meaning quickly, “Should we take them off?”

Molly nodded, “We should take them off.”

They undressed clumsily, tangled up in clothes that were too large or too small, throwing each one of them to the floor, and kissing in between.

After they had made love they laid together on the sofa, discussing possible costumes and coming up with the most ridiculous ideas for outfits. Before they made a final decision they were sure to try all of them out. And take them off too.


	7. Cosplaying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not very fond of this chapter, but having to come up with a story about cosplay when I have just written an Halloween themed one isn't easy. I tried my best here!

“Is this some sort of joke?” Sherlock asked after opening the door of his flat and seeing Molly waiting there.

John, standing behind him, was laughing, amused both at Molly’s cosplay and at Sherlock’s reaction.

“You said it was a convention and that I should cosplay. So, here it is.”

“I don’t really think Poirot counts as cosplaying, Molly.”

“I don’t see why not. Not everyone likes Batman, you know?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I need to go undercover. It was one of the best choices.”

“One of the best choices?” Molly looked at him, unconvinced, “Are you sure this was not simply so that John had to go as Robin? Spiderman would be a much better cosplay if it’s anonymity you are seeking.”

“Wait a second,” John cut, taking a step forward and holding Sherlock’s arm, “You wanted to go as Batman so that I had to go as Robin?”

“Why would I want something like that?” Sherlock said, looking down at John, “Well, let’s go. Don’t complain if you get mocked for this,” he warned Molly.

“I won’t get mocked for this.” she assured

They took a cab to the place of the convention but Sherlock made it stop a few blocks before, and they walked the rest of the way there. Before entering the building they reviewed their strategy and then scattered away from each other. Each of them had a purpose, which is why Sherlock had chosen Molly as well for this. He needed an extra hand besides John, and Molly never failed to help him out.  He didn’t like having her as the main target of the criminal they were seeking, but there was no one else that could be used as bait in this case, and Molly had acquiesced immediately when Sherlock first told him of his plans.

They blended in and pretended not to know each other. Molly got more attention that she should, but she finally managed to get the job done.

John keeps using the excuse of being too warm inside his own costume as way to start a conversation, and he tries to keep Sherlock close.

In the end, with Molly’s indication, Sherlock finds the man he was looking for: a harasser that uses his anonymity as cosplayer, and cheap talk to lure women into his house and kill them afterwards.

Sally and Lestrade arrive at the place, and the pieces fit perfectly. The convention ends early, with a grim taste in the air.

Back at Scotland Yard Sherlock is ecstatic. He has taken off his mask a long time ago, and both Sally and Lestrade find it hilarious that he had chosen Batman, the protector of the city, as his costume. Molly gives her own account of what happened and Sherlock leads the Detective Inspector to the vital clues, to the final proof.  

Later that night, Sherlock, John and Molly walk together in the direction of Baker Street. Sherlock lays down the case from the beginning to both of them for the first time, and explains the details Molly and John didn’t know yet better. They drink tea and listen but John is tired and finally decides to go to bed. Molly gets a call from her current boyfriend and leaves, pleased with the help she has provided.

Sherlock is all alone. He removes the rest of his cosplay and sighs, Molly’s words and gestures floating around in his mind. He is tired of deception, but he can’t find in himself the power to let her know.


	8. Shopping

“Alright, how do I look?” Sherlock appeared from behind the wooden folding screen, and he looked at Molly, expectant.

Molly held her breath for a second, a smile forming on her lips, wide eyed, “You look gorgeous,” she exhaled, not worried about hiding her awe.

The lady that had been in charge of taking Sherlock’s measurements for the last few weeks was looking at both of them, gauging their reactions.

“Do you like it, then?” Sherlock asked again, looking at himself now.

“Yes. It’s dashing,” Molly took a step towards him, running her fingers over the fabric of the suit, appreciating the shape of the collar, “It’s very well-tailored, a beautiful colour.”

She couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Sherlock smiled at her, a bit embarrassed but pleased with her scrutiny, and then looked at the lady, with a nod of approval. They were both satisfied.

The lady left in order to take some notes, allowing them some time alone.

“You are going to be the most wonderful groom,” Molly said, still gazing at him with wonder. The engagement ring on her finger reflected the light from the ceiling and Sherlock held her hand. Then, without warning, he spun her around the room. People were starting to look but he didn’t seem to mind.

“What are you doing?” Molly asked, blushing and trying to keep up.

Dancing had never been one of her strong points; she was too clumsy and uncoordinated for that. Sherlock had been tutoring her, preparing them both for the big day. Yet, every time she danced, even in front of John or Mrs. Hudson, Molly felt self-conscious. Now she was spinning around in Sherlock’s arms in the middle of a tailoring shop, and with an audience. She tried to focus on her feet, on Sherlock’s guidance, and on forgetting the curious looks. She closed her eyes and let herself go.

“I’m testing the suit. I need to be comfortable if I want to enjoy the day,” he explained, but there was a wicked grin on his face that Molly failed to see.

They were not in rhythm with the background music diffused by the speakers placed strategically around the store, but somehow they managed to dance together without any major faults. In the end, Sherlock dipped Molly, and she finally opened her eyes, looking up at him.

Everyone in the store clapped and Sherlock’s grin widened. He then pulled Molly up and held her by the hand, bowing to the crowd. Molly, still crimson, bowed as well, shyly.

“You are insane,” she whispered to him as people started to scatter away.

“I thought you were aware of that already, Mrs. Holmes.”

“No, no,” Molly denied, “I’m not taking your name.”

“Are you sure? Because I really like how it sounds,” he pointed out, “Molly Holmes. Doctor Molly Holmes,” he repeated.

She liked it too, but she would not give in, “Absolutely not,” she assured him.

She looked up at him and Sherlock was observing her, adoration all over his face, “Will you marry me?”

Molly rolled her eyes. This was a recurrent conversation, “I already answered you that, Sherlock.  That’s the sole reason we are here in the first place, trying on your wedding suit.”

“I like to hear you say it,” he insisted, “Will you marry me?”

“I will,” she accepted again, for the millionth time.

Sherlock smiled. He had all intention to keep asking her to marry him for the rest of their lives. Not for reassurance, not even only because he loved to hear her say it, but because nothing made his heart race as much as the way Molly brightened up every time he asked her that. She loved him, with his flaws and insanity, and he wanted to make sure he was deserving of it.   


	9. Going Out With Friends

Sherlock took a sip of his drink and looked around. John was already blending in with the group, talking out loud with Lestrade and honestly showing a side of himself Sherlock had not yet seen. He had no idea John was able to slide in so many insults into a single sentence, nor talk about football with such insight. He felt like he was starting to regret going out with them, but to be fair he had never wanted to go out with them in the first place.

He yawned, observing the door, and wondering if he would be able to escape without raising anyone’s attention, when a known figure made its entrance through the main door of the bar.

Molly Hooper looked around and she spotted Sherlock almost immediately. She frowned, looked at John and Lestrade and the whole gang that accompanied them and was making more noise than necessary, and walked in their direction.

They all cheered her on when she approached the table, and Molly laughed at them, making a few jokes as way of greeting. Then, she sat by Sherlock’s side, removing her coat.

“Did John make you come here?” she asked.

Ah, dear old Molly, she always seemed to know what was going on.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, a look of resignation on his face, “I lost a bet, and here I am.”

Molly chuckled, “I thought so,” she ordered a beer from a passing waiter, and then turned her attention to Sherlock again, “I got a few things for you at the lab, by the way.”

“Limbs?”

“A whole head.”

Sherlock smiled, observing her with more attention, and Molly looked at him, surprised to catch him staring at her.

“What did you bet?” she asked, pointing with her head in John’s direction.

Sherlock blushed, “Oh, nothing of importance,” he mumbled.

“Sherlock,” Molly admonished, accepting the drink that the waiter had placed on the table with a polite smile, “You can tell me. It’s fine, I won’t laugh.”

Sherlock took another sip of his own drink, staring at John with disdain, “I bet him that I would not ruin another date for him. If I happened to do that, he would have then the chance to ruin one of my nights. And here we all are.”

Molly laughed, “What did you do this time?” she inquired, curious.

“It wasn’t really anything I did,” he admitted, “She was cheating on him; all I had to do was to deduce her for him. If anything, John should be thankful.”

Molly drank, raising her eyebrows, “Maybe he was too worried about being heartbroken to feel thankful,” she pointed out.

“They were dating for two weeks.”

“Some people get attached quickly,” she reasoned. “What if I get you out of here? What do I get from it?”

Sherlock looked at Molly and then at John, who was now laughing at something Mike Stamford had said, “Anything.”

Molly frowned, “Anything? At all?”

Sherlock nodded, “Within reason. Don’t order a murder from me; I’m not a trained assassin.”

She laughed, amused. Then she got up, walked around the table to face Sherlock, and interfered in the conversation. John and Lestrade looked at her and Sherlock got up, slowly. He could only make out small details of what Molly was saying, but it had certainly taken everyone’s attention. He sneaked out through the back door of the bar, into the street.

Molly showed up a few minute later, “Run,” she said, “They’re looking for you.”

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock said, but he held the hand she extended and ran nevertheless.

They ended up taking a cab to Molly’s flat. She turned on the light of her living room when they arrived, and let Sherlock in. Her phone buzzed and she picked it up. It was John.

Sherlock observed as Molly gave the most blatant but reliable excuse for her absence, pretending it was in no way related to Sherlock’s, and then watched her hanging up. John would not be able to find him tonight.

“I owe you one,” Sherlock said.

“You do,” Molly agreed.

Sherlock had his hands inside of his pockets, “So, how can I pay you back?”

Molly smiled as Sherlock broke the façade and approached her, holding her by the waist, pulling her unnecessarily close to him.

“Oh, I have a few ideas,” she whispered. “Was this the sort of role playing you were so eager to try out?” she asked.

Sherlock nodded, “Yes. Makes it all much more interesting. And they don’t even suspect.”

“Good,” Molly said, “Now, shall I expose my ideas to you?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

Molly guided him to her bedroom, wondering where to start.


	10. With Animal Ears

Molly scratched her eyes, still sleepy. She had gone to bed far too late the previous night, and it was all Sherlock’s fault, as usual. She had slept poorly the last couple of weeks because of him, though she couldn’t really complain about it. About half of the times she had started it all, and she would do it all over again.

Molly smiled, remembering the things she had been doing with Sherlock when she ought to be sleeping, the way he whispered her name in dimly lit rooms, and looked so vulnerable in her arms. She sighed, happily. She opened the tap and waited for the water to warm up, checking her reflection in the mirror. She froze.

“What the hell. I have-”

Cat ears. She had cat ears that matched the colour of her hair, and pointed upwards, where her regular, human ears used to be.

“Stay calm.”

Sherlock’s voice was low, and Molly watched him through the mirror in front of her, walking quietly to meet her. She turned around.

“What is this? Sherlock, what is happening?” she was scared. And now she could see Sherlock up close, and better, “You’ve got them too,” she breathed, reaching out to touch his ears.

Sherlock’s cat ears were just like hers except for the colour, which matched his hair, the same way hers matched her hair as well.

“Yes,” Sherlock said. He was standing right in front of her and he raised one hand to touch her ears, with pause, slowly. They were smooth, rosy on the inside, “I didn’t know it could be transmitted.”

Molly’s mouth fell agape, “What do you mean, transmitted?” Sherlock didn’t answer, he was observing her new ears meticulously, like he did with any object that was worth studying, “Sherlock, I made you a question, what do you mean transmittable?”

Her tone was angry, and Sherlock stepped back. He was looking for the right words to use, “I’ve been trying out something these last couple of weeks. I wasn’t sure it would work, and I certainly was unaware it could be passed on, but apparently it can.”

He knew that that didn’t answer Molly’s question completely. She was still staring at him, waiting for him to elaborate on that before jumping to conclusions.

“I wanted to see if it was possible to make changes in one’s body but combining a cat’s DNA with human’s DNA. I’ve been working on this for a few years, but only now had the chance to try it out. So I did. I tested it on myself. I wasn’t really sure what would come of it, so I suppose we are lucky it’s just the ears.”

“Lucky?” Molly shouted, turning again to face herself in the mirror, panic spread all over her face. She hadn’t asked for this. She didn’t want cat ears; she wanted her flawed ears, as human as they were. She tugged at them with her hands, trying not to lose it yet, trying to rip them off. To her surprise, one of the cat ears came off with a shredding sound, showing her perfect rosy ear underneath.

Behind her, Sherlock laughed out loud, pointing at her in jest.

“You should have seen your face!” he said, laughing again, “I thought you were going to wake up at any time whilst I was placing them; luckily you’re a heavy sleeper. It took me ages to perfect the makeup technique so it would look like they were growing from the skin. Oh, fantastic!”

 Molly let her hands fall to her sides in defeat, and then turned to face Sherlock again, “This was all a prank?”

Sherlock nodded, taking one step closer to her, “April first. Wait until you see the one I have prepared for Mycroft!”

Molly gave a sigh of relief, closing her eyes as she shook her head in reprimand.

“I am dating an absolute idiot,” she said, her heart rate returning to its normal pace. She could murder him right now.

Sherlock had a guilty smile on his face now, so he wiggled his own cat ears, pouting, pretending to be ashamed of his conduct.

“It’s no use,” Molly said, “I was about to have a heart attack because of you,” then a wicked smile crossed her face, as Sherlock’s ears continued to wiggle, “How are you doing that?”

“What, the wiggle?” Sherlock asked, trying to understand if she was now mad or amused at it all, “Like this,” he taught, making it again.

Molly tried it out until she mastered. Then, she placed her ripped off cat ear into Sherlock’s hand, “Put them on me again. Let’s spread the terror around London. Well, around St. Bart’s, at least,” she giggled, imagining her colleagues’ reaction to her believable cat ears.

“Spread terror?” Sherlock asked, “You look way too lovely with them to instigate terror into anyone.”

“By the way,” Molly stepped forward, shortening the small distance between the two and ignoring the veiled compliment, and her voice became a whisper, “I’m pregnant.”

Then, she kissed him on the cheek and stepped away, walking out of the bathroom.

Sherlock stood still in the same place for a second, “Ah, that’s an old prank! Come on, it’s the first of April, you can’t just drop something like that! Obviously it isn’t true,” he turned around, and saw Molly disappearing beyond the hall into the kitchen, “Molly? Molly, you can’t do this sort of thing today. Are you pregnant or are you kidding? Molly?”

Molly put the kettle to boil with a smile on her face, as Sherlock’s voice took on a slightly panicked tone. That’s revenge for you, Mr. Holmes.


	11. Wearing Kigurumis

Molly opened the door of the flat, balancing the groceries in one hand. It had been raining since early morning, one of those days that all you want is to stay home underneath the blankets and watch TV. Unfortunately, she had had to work, and she needed to buy food as well, so she left the house in the morning, and passed by the grocery store before returning home.

She walked up the stairs and stopped as she entered the living room.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor, dozing off and snoring lightly, with Joan spread against him, mouth slightly open and sleeping as well. They had covered the floor with pillows and blankets and built some sort of fort around them with a sheet. It was hung to the ceiling, and covered the back of the sofa, falling like the curtains of a four poster bed on each side of it. The book Sherlock had been reading to their daughter was fallen on top of his lap, but what surprised Molly the most was the costume he and Joan were wearing. Kigurumis; Sherlock’s a dark brown colour with short pointy ears, and Joan’s red with ears that fell to the side. They both looked adorable.

Molly turned on the light and Sherlock moved in his sleep. He turned his head to her, waking up immediately.

“Hey,” he smiled, sleepy eyes, and then looked at Joan leaning against him in a strange position, and adjusted her.

“Did you two have a party while I was working?” Molly asked, placing the groceries on top of the kitchen table and then walking towards him.

Sherlock took a deep breath and answered to Molly’s kiss, patting with one hand a pillow placed on the floor, an invitation for Molly to sit down, “Yes, we watched a movie, then started reading a story together. She fell asleep before I finished it, and I ended up falling asleep as well.”

“And what is this?” Molly asked, grabbing the fabric of Sherlock’s kurigami between her fingers, “You did not have this. Nor her.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock explained, “She went shopping and apparently this seemed to her the perfect outfit for us.”

Molly laughed silently, to avoid waking Joan.

“There’s one for you, too,” Sherlock said, retrieving a small bag from over the sofa, “I promised Joan you’d put it on when you got home.”

“Oh, did you?” she asked, “This way we all match.”

She got up and tried it on. Hers was blue, the big ears similar to those on Joan’s outfit.

“How do I look?”

“Adorable.”

She sat down again, and leaned on Sherlock’s shoulder, Joan still sleeping between the two of them.

“Maybe we should order pizza for dinner tonight,” Molly suggested, Sherlock’s arm placed over her shoulders, pulling her close.

“I think Joan will like that very much.”

Molly sighed, warmed by the peaceful way her daughter was sleeping next to her, and the reassuring touch of Sherlock’s hand.

If someone asked her if this was the life she had ever wished for herself, she would answer negatively. This was so much better than she had dared to dream.


	12. Making Out

Sherlock walked like a storm into the lab, startling Molly, and she let the small plastic container she was carrying fall to the floor. Luckily, it was empty and she rushed to catch it. When she was back on her feet, Sherlock was already standing in front of her, quite closer than necessary. Molly tried to take a step back but realised she was trapped between him and the lab bench, so she pressed her back against it, looking up at Sherlock, who was gazing at her with an expression Molly couldn’t define.

“Sherlock,” she said, “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting you, I am all alone, and-”

“It’s quite alright,” he said, but if he noticed that she was looking for a way to escape the closeness of his body, almost touching hers, Molly wasn’t sure, “I was wondering if you could help me with something.”

Molly pursed her lips. Of course, why else would he be there if not to request her help? She nodded, avoiding his intense gaze.

“Sure,” she mumbled, “What do you need?”

“You.”

His voice was low and Molly blushed, biting her dry lips and averting his gaze before being able to former a sentence without stammering, “Oh, right.  For what exactly?”

“Kissing.”

Molly’s head darted upwards, and she blinked rapidly. Sherlock, on the other hand, was relaxed, and waited for an answer.

“I’m… sorry?”

“I need to experiment kissing. It’s for an experiment; it has to do with the chemicals that are released-”

“I’m sorry,” she interrupted, “You want to experiment kissing with me?”

Sherlock seemed a bit disappointed that she didn’t want to hear his explanation, but he answered nevertheless, “Yes. If you are alright with it.”

Alright with it? Molly swallowed, contemplating the proposal. One thing was dreaming about this pretty much on a daily basis, with a few different nuances about the way it would happen; a very different thing was for Sherlock to want to kiss her for an experiment. She wasn’t sure if this made it all better or worse. This request was nothing of what she had dreamt about, but still it would allow her to kiss Sherlock without the expectation of a romantic involvement, but just pure and simple science although, if she was true to herself, this might also become a problem. Did she want to kiss him knowing they would then continue as if nothing had happened?

Yes, definitely yes. It would be foolish not to take advantage of the situation. No expectations, no waiting for him to call the next day saying that he loved her. Just full on experiment.

“I am alright with it,” Molly agreed, finally, looking up at him.

Sherlock smiled, “Good,” he said, and he stepped forward, closing the almost inexistent distance between the two now. He raised one hand, and placed one finger on Molly’s chin, tilting her head slightly up.

“What? You mean right now?”

Molly’s eyes were wide open and Sherlock’s smile was endearing, “Well, yes,” he said, “Unless you are uncomfortable with it.”

Molly shook her head almost too quickly, “No. Now is fine. Now is just fine.”

She took a deep breath and Sherlock moved his head so close to Molly’s that she could feel his breath against her own, his lips brushing hers. She opened her mouth instinctively and Sherlock took advantage of it and advanced. He kissed her slowly, savouring her, only lips at first, then with his tongue as well. He kissed her and Molly got hold of his coat, feeling him pulling her against his body, hands on her waist. He alternated the type of kisses he delivered, from quiet, simple pecks on the lips, to passionate bumping-teeth-inducing kisses.

Sherlock pulled away first, still holding Molly.

“Quite alright,” he whispered.

Molly inhaled, dizzy, trying to even her own breath, trying to seem casual about what had just happened, but she was sure Sherlock could hear her heart beating faster all over her body. She needed to say something, something that could distract her, get rid of the shaking that had taken over her body now.

“So, the chemicals you wanted to study, and-”

“Mine,” Sherlock interrupted.

“What?”

“I wanted to make sure of something.”

Molly frowned.

“Oh, I see,” she didn’t, really. “And so, did you, could you find out what you were looking for or…”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“And?” Molly asked.

“And I guess that there's only one thing left to do," he took a deep breath, bright eyed, "Molly Hooper, would you like to go on a date with me?”


	13. Eating Ice Cream

“Alright, pass me the strawberries, please.”

Sherlock cleaned his hands on the pink apron and Molly smiled, giving him the bowl of fruit she had peeled, chopped in tiny pieces, and washed while he prepared the cream.  He noticed her mocking attitude and smirked, his attention in what he was doing again, but not as focused as before.

“Find anything funny, Miss Hooper?” he asked, knowing exactly the answer.

“No, not at all,” she said, “Pink and lace suit you.”

Sherlock poured the fruit into the buzzing ice cream machine and let the strawberries blend in with the red cream that was already swirling inside the cold recipient, and then he grabbed Molly by the waist, without warning.

“No!” Molly complained, pretending to try to get away from his grip, but with no intention to make him let go of her, “You’re going to make my clothes dirty!”

He couldn’t pull her any closer, so he grabbed her back with both hands and kissed her on the lips, pressing his nose against hers, “It’s okay. I’ll be more than glad to help you take them off. In order to wash them, of course,” he corrected.

“Of course,” Molly repeated, looking up at him. “This better be a good recipe,” she warned, pointing at the ice cream machine with her head.

“This is a great recipe. I made all the calculations and experiments necessary previously, to make sure that you won’t ever taste such a magnificent ice cream.”

“Oh, magnificent,” she mocked. “Is there anything you do without calculations and experiments?” she inquired.

Sherlock tugged her again against him and this time he kissed her harder, more passionately. Then one of his hands slid to her thigh whilst the other removed the objects placed on top of the kitchen table out of the way, and he lifted Molly, sitting her on top of it.

“This was not calculated. Nor experimented before, sadly enough.”

Molly pursed her lips, trying to conceal the smile that had spread on her face, and she rested her hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, playing with his curls.

“Maybe it’s time to change that,” she suggested.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Just as soon as the ice cream is made. I need to pay attention to it now, don’t want to ruin it-”

“Sherlock?” Molly interrupted, “Shut the hell up.”

She scratched Sherlock’s neck with her nails and heard him moan under the lips she pressed against his, her tongue making its way inside his mouth already. Sherlock answered by holding on to her tighter, Molly’s legs on each side of him.

The timer Sherlock had set went off, and Molly pulled away for a second, “Don’t you dare,” she threatened, but Sherlock’s hands were already busy removing her leggings, whilst his lips ran down her neck and shoulders,

“We’re going to ruin the most perfect ice cream ever created,” he pointed out, breathing heavily.

“Yes. Yes we are.”

They didn’t. They made love on the kitchen table, and then they cuddled on the sofa, eating the best ice cream in the world together. And realising, incidentally, that unplanned things can taste as good.


	14. Gender Swapped

“Mo!”

Sherlock’s voice resounded on the hospital’s corridor and Mo looked back, surprised. The consulting detective was pacing towards him, hands in her pockets, walking fast. Her hair fell on a cascade of untamed curls around her shoulders, dark like a crow’s feathers. Mo smiled.

“I thought I would be too late,” Sherlock said.

“You almost were,” Mo informed, blushing. He always seemed to blush around Sherlock, “I was just leaving. Do you need anything?”

“Your colleague is being a bit difficult.”

“Last time you called him an idiot. I figured he might be.”

“Well, he is an idiot,” she affirmed, “But anyway, I needed to use the lab and he kicked me out. Do you think you can do anything about that?”

Mo nodded, and paced towards the lab. Sherlock followed him straight away.

“New case?” he asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, without going into details, “Mo?”

Mo turned around, stopping as Sherlock did.

“Yes?”

“Jane told me something today ,and I was wondering…”

“Yes?” he repeated.

“Do you like me?”

Mo turned crimson, dropping the locker keys he was holding onto the floor, mouth open, not sure of what he should say.

“I- Well, I don’t, I mean, I-” he cleared his throat, averting Sherlock’s gaze, “Does it really matter?”

“It does, in a way,” Sherlock answered, “I’d hate to ask you out thinking that you might be interested in it, and then make a fool of myself because you’re not.”

“You want to go out with me?” Mo asked, “Because it’s alright, you don’t have to, I’ll still let you use the lab-”

“I’m not asking you out on a date because I need to use the lab,” Sherlock cut.

“No?”

“No.”

Mo took a deep breath, “I’d be delighted to go on a date with you. If you still want to, I mean.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, and she passed Mo, opening the door to the lab, “Is Friday evening alright for you?”

“Yes,” Mo answered, “Quite alright.”

Sherlock smiled, “Great. Now please try to get some sense into your colleague’s head so he won’t bother me while I am working. I’d hate to have to kill him and be arrested for it. That would sort of make me unable to attend our date.”

Mo smiled, relaxing at the easy way Sherlock seemed to be taking this, “Will do.”

Sherlock smiled back, and opened the door of the lab. Mo took a deep breath, and followed her. Friday couldn’t come fast enough, and he hoped that his best suit – that hadn’t been worn in ages – was still in proper shape. It was time to take it out of the closet, at last.


	15. Wearing a Different Clothing Style

Sherlock finished reading the programme of that evening’s theatre play, and turned his head towards the door, John’s voice greeting someone who was making an entrance into the theatre’s lobby.

Sherlock’s mouth fell open when he saw Molly, whose eyes turned immediately to him, despite the fact that she was till complimenting John, and it struck Sherlock that her expression as she saw him, mimicked his. He blinked and assumed his ordinary nonchalant face, trying to take his eyes off her, focusing again on the programme.

The theatre play was a Victorian act, and a private one at it. Tickets had been sent out to a set of specific people, one of which was Sherlock. He had been able to invite a few more people, at will. The host of that rendezvous was a very important client, and would be forever thankful to Sherlock after he had helped acquitting him from a triple murder accusation. The only request of the host for those attending the play was that everyone should be wearing Victorian clothes, to match the performance they would have the pleasure to watch on stage, and no one had let him down. Walking into the theatre felt like walking into a different age, like travelling back in time. There were no lights on, only candles spread all over the place, in fancy, old style candlesticks. 

When he casually mentioned the play to Molly she had been so excited about it that Sherlock did not have the heart to keep her out of it. So he had retrieved four tickets: one for himself, one for John, and two more, for Molly and Lestrade. John had taken care of their clothes and hats, and looked forward, much more than Sherlock, for the evening ahead.

Sherlock realised now that this had been a terrible mistake. Molly, in her long dress and Victorian hairdo, looked stunning, and he really didn’t want to deal with the torrent of thoughts taking over his mind right now. He was supposed to come here and enjoy an out of the ordinary event, not fall in love with Molly Hooper. He took a deep breath, and approached them.

“Molly,” he said, realising that he loved the way her name sounded on his lips, “Lestrade.”

“This is great,” Lestrade said, looking at him, and Sherlock tried to focus on what he was saying, rather than Molly’s infatuated smile, “Literally everyone is dressed up for the evening.”

“The programme seems interesting, too,” Molly said, an excited energy in her voice, “There’s dinner after the play in one of the rooms here. This is all very fancy.”

She looked at Sherlock, as if waiting for his agreement, but Sherlock throat was too dry for him to speak.

 They were rushed along by an employee of the theatre, and they sat on leathered sits, in the front row. John changed sits with Molly to talk to Lestrade, leaving her and Sherlock sitting side by side.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Molly said, looking at him again, “This is almost magical. I had a bit of trouble to find a dress though, couldn’t find the right bra to wear underneath it,” she shut up, taken aback by the excessive information she was providing Sherlock with, and changed the subject, “It all turned out okay in the end, though. I haven’t been to the theatre in ages.”

“Do you like it?” Sherlock asked, staring at her now.

“I do, yes. Do you?”

“I find it quite fascinating,” Sherlock admitted, “The whole spectacle of lights and shadow. There’s a lot you can see when the curtain opens. A lot you can study. People’s emotions, how they react differently to certain lines depending on their own experiences.”

Molly nodded, once again scrutinizing his features, “You look very dapper,” she blurted out.

Sherlock blushed, which was uncommon. He was not used to be embarrassed, “Thank you,” he said, “You look very,” he searched for the right word, “Exquisite.”

Molly smiled, and their eyes met as the lights of the room were dimmed, and everyone went silent.

*

Everyone invited enjoyed a delicious dinner in a dimly lit room, with candles and flowers decorating the centre of the tables, and men and women wore hats and chatted the evening away. When the evening programme came to an end John and Lestrade went for a pint at a bar, and Sherlock offered to walk Molly home. It was a pleasant night; no rain, not a cloud in the sky even, a chill breeze that was not enough to make them cold, and a full moon illuminating the streets of London.

The two of them walking together in their outfits provided a curious contrast with the modern architecture of the city.

Molly waved her dress slightly as she paced, and Sherlock had his hands behind his back, his usual long coat replaced for a tuxedo over a waistcoat.

“The play was nice, don’t you think?” Molly asked, looking at Sherlock sideways, smiling.

Sherlock turned his gaze to her, “Yes, I found it quite interesting.” he paused. “Molly,” he said her name out loud, his intonation marking the start of a question that he did not finish.

“Yes?” Molly asked, looking at him again.

“Would you like to do this again?”

Molly stopped in the middle of the pavement, clutching her small purse in her hands, “How do you mean?”

“Dress up, attend a play, have dinner, walk home.”

“Oh, you have more invitations? You’re quite well-related, the tickets for this must have been expensive and-”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted, turning his body to stand face to face with her now.

The light of the streetlamp cast its shade over them, accentuating Molly’s features. Sherlock blinked and then cleared his throat.

“I mean, just the two of us.”

Molly frowned, trying to understand if he was asking her what she thought he was.

“You mean you want to go out, just the two of us?”

“Yes,” Sherlock choked out, “But you know, like this. To do this again. If you like.”

“Dressed up?” she giggled, using her palms to stretch the fabric of her dress, looking at herself, “Like this?”

“You seem to have enjoyed it. I am sure I can book the theatre just like today.”

Molly smiled, “Yes. Of course. I’d love to.”

Sherlock returned the smile. Then, he faced away from her, and they started to walk together again, in the same direction as before, side by side.

*

Molly was expecting a full room, the same buzz of the week before; instead, they had a full theatre for themselves, and a play performed for them alone. Not the same as before, but it took her breath away all the same.

Sherlock observed Molly, hardly paying attention to the play, and the way her lips moved as the lines were delivered, and her hands pressed together at dramatic scenes. She was all into it, lost in it, mesmerized by it.

The actors left and the theatre was abandoned again, their murmurs echoing in the room. The curtain had closed now and another was about to open.

He had meant to wait for dinner, but the way Molly’s eyes were shinning, happiness spread all over her face, changed his instincts. He leaned over the seat and he kissed her in the lips.

Molly placed her right hand over his chest and she could hear Sherlock’s heart beating under it, a constant rapid pulse that matched her own.

They kissed again when Sherlock delivered Molly safely at her house, fulfilling the tradition of a first date good-night kiss. And as they walked away from each other – Molly up the stairs to her flat, Sherlock towards Baker Street – there were many more promises lingering in the night air, and they could hardly wait to consummate them all.

They put on their costumes several times, two Victorian shadows walking in the streets of modern London, but there were no more masquerades. Molly had managed to pierce through the breaches of Sherlock’s armour, and she loved what she had found there. Sherlock was more than glad to let her discover him, because it allowed him to discover himself in the process. Mostly, he was happy to be loved by Molly, and to realise with satisfaction that he was, in fact, capable of loving her too.


End file.
